


Stateless

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a full tank and the money in his pocket, Edge was sure that he could make it well into Arizona.  It wasn’t the answer, he knew, but at least he’d be getting somewhere fast.</p><p>Set in 1988.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> Okay, so this isn't Nexus (I feel like I've said that before...) but I am working on it, promise! I've just been busy and then...this happened. You know how it is. Fouroux suggested a hint of a plot and threw a few more things at me, and I hit the ground running. Somehow, it turned into a two part. You know how it is. This is inspired by some sort of fact, things that appeared in U2 by U2 about a time on top of the Million Dollar Hotel and more, and it was such a delicious time for Edge angst. I'm a terrible, terrible person.

Edge felt he knew the sign better backwards than he did forwards.

He knew it better with the letters the wrong way around and the sunlight streaming through, with a small gathering standing in front, or just him alone as he listened to life continuing on below without him.

He knew it best with Bono sitting below it, where the bottom of the heart met into a point and gave way to the sky. He could read the sign backwards and that wasn’t much of a challenge when the lettering was bigger than his head, but when they were halfway through a bottle of whiskey and Bono was painting words in the sky with a single finger, Edge would do anything just to see him smile.

With such a look directed his way, sometimes Edge could almost believe that, yes, maybe he _had_ hung the moon. Maybe he _could_ move mountains, or beat gravity, or keep it together long enough to see it all through. To pull Bono close and keep him there, right there with him until they could both breathe together.

With the both of them flat on their backs, Bono had once said, “Keep looking at the sky, Edge. Shut out the noise and just watch the clouds.” His hand had been warm against Edge’s arm, against his wrist and his palm; fingers threading through fingers and curling. “It feels like we’re the only two people in the world up here, doesn’t it?”

For a moment, he could believe.

But then the sound of the traffic below cut through him, and he had nowhere else to go but down.

“Edge.”

He could make it. If he had to. Even if he didn’t have to, he could make it. With a running jump and the wind against his face, fighting gravity all the way. Win or lose, at least he’d be getting somewhere fast.

“ _Edge_.”

A warm hand found his wrist, and to his right Bono had a smile on his face that Edge had seen directed at others before, but never him. “Have you ever noticed how close together these two buildings are?” he asked, and Bono just kept on smiling that blank smile.

“I have. And you know, I was standing in the middle of the rooftop when I noticed.” His grip tightened and back they went, one step, two steps, and the next building over started to slip away.

“If I really had to,” Edge said, “I could jump across to the next building.”

There was a slight hesitation before Bono said, “Perhaps,” and he had every reason to be unsure. “But I can’t think of a single situation where you would have to jump from building to building, Edge.”

Edge couldn’t either, but still he said, “It’s such a small gap.”

“Between two very tall buildings.” Bono shook his head. “It’s all about perspective, The Edge.”

They sat down on the rooftop with a bottle between them, quiet as they waited for the sky to change. It came on slowly, a burst of orange among the clouds, and then through the sign the blue gave way to pinks and purples, streaking through the smog until all they were left with were the stars and the moon.

Eventually, Bono asked, “Are you alright, Edge?” His eyes were neon blue against the sign, and from the look on his face he already knew the answer. “What can I do?”

“I’m fine,” Edge said.

Bono shook his head, and Edge kissed him before he could ask again. His cheek was cool, his lips warm, and when he whispered in Edge’s ear his breath was hot enough to make Edge want to lose control.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Still, his breath caught in his chest and he clung to Bono, fisting his shirt so tightly that Edge didn’t think he’d ever be able to let go. He didn’t want to. God, he couldn’t.

He could taste the whiskey on Bono’s lips, bittersweet and sliding like velvet against his tongue, and when Bono tried to pull away Edge drew him back in, chasing it until the palm against his cheek started to shift. Lower, lower it went, until the hum of the sign all but slipped away. “Lay back,” Bono whispered again in his ear. “It’s alright.”

He went back slowly, taking Bono with him until a simple smile was enough to loosen his hold. A hand slid up his thigh as Bono made his way down, his lips warm even through the material of his shirt. He kissed Edge’s chest as he drew down a zipper and sighed against Edge’s stomach as he exposed him to the cool of the night.

The door caught his eye, and when he whispered Bono’s name, Bono followed his gaze for all of a second before smiling up at him.

“Edge,” he said, “we’re the only two people in the world, remember?”

Edge remembered. God, remembered. But still, he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the door. Any minute now. Any minute, and maybe it wouldn’t be her, Jesus it couldn’t be her, but it wouldn’t matter.

A hand fell against his chest, and Edge clung to it. “Here, Edge,” Bono said, his breath ghosting warm against sensitive skin. “I’m here.”

He was, he _was_ , and Edge let it all slip away. Forced himself to concentrate on the heat, the unbearable heat that pooled low in his belly and caught in his throat - more, _more_ \- until he had to slide his fingers through Bono’s hair and _pull_. Gliding like silk against his fingers, against his cock, and he bit his lip to keep it from coming; a moan, a sob, whatever came first, and Bono’s fingers curled against his chest.

It was enough. Christ, it was too much, and it shot through him like lightning, white hot and burning. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and then it was gone. Lost, like any other time, and already Edge was starting to forget the feel of it all.

He could still feel Bono’s breath though, warm against him even as his skin started to prickle from the cool. And then it was gone. _He_ was gone.

It was only a moment, but still the panic clenched in his stomach, tightened his chest, and when Bono settled back down against him it was a perfect weight that he longed for, that let it all slide away to nothingness.

There was his breath against Edge’s cheek and the stars above them, and when Bono’s lips found his skin Edge wanted to turn his head and kiss him properly, kiss him until he was breathless and gasping for it.

He didn’t. He just kept his eyes on the stars.

“What is it?” Bono asked when he started to tremble. “Edge, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t know exactly. “It’s nothing,” he said, because it had to be, and when Bono raised his head Edge just kept on looking up at the sky.

“Edge . . .”

He didn’t know, and when he again said, “It’s nothing,” he knew Bono didn’t believe him. Which was okay, because Edge could barely believe himself.

They parted on the street, with Bono walking backwards even as he again asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” The disappointment was clear on his face when Edge shook his head _no_ , and when Bono came to a stop Edge wasn’t quick enough to turn away. “I’ll come with you then.”

People continued to pass by, completely oblivious to the both of them. The city was made up of celebrity, and to them Bono might just have been one of many. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Edge called back. “I’m just heading home.”

He wasn’t, but it was enough for Bono to let him go.

In the car, he smoked a cigarette as he watched the clock, waiting, waiting, and when he felt like it was safe to do so he pulled away from the curb and headed the wrong way from home.

The club was around the corner, the lights of the sign dancing through his car as he passed it. It was tempting to stop. To find a park and walk inside, to go and scan the crowd until he found a familiar face. An arm to pull, straight on into a private stall.

He kept driving.

The studio was empty when he walked inside, and Edge was glad for it. Glad for the silence, the deafening silence in a space that brought out the best in him, and for a while he simply sat in a chair and searched for the melody he knew had to exist somewhere, _somewhere_ inside his brain.

It was there. It was right there, not quite anything but something, and when he picked up his guitar it almost slipped away. Almost. He grasped at it, desperate to make it sing, to turn it into something that was purely his.

It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but it was all he had.

The sky was just beginning to turn when Edge pulled into his driveway, and on his way out the afternoon before he’d promised them all that he wouldn’t be late. A promise was a promise, his mother had always said, and he’d broken so many of them recently.

After turning off the engine, Edge sat and watched the front door. He wasn’t sure what he expected really, but whatever it was he didn’t get it.

He sat there.

Slowly, his gaze drifted and, with an idea starting to form in his mind, he began to calculate.

With a full tank and the money in his pocket, he could make it well into Arizona.

Just follow the Interstate 10, and he’d done it before. In a car, in the front of a bus and at the back, stopping at Joshua Tree or passing it, and on a day when the window was hot against his palm as he pressed up close and waited for the next traffic sign to appear.

They’d still been a long way from Phoenix, and when the heat had gotten too much, Edge had pulled the curtains closed and reached for a map.

With a careful finger, he’d traced the line from city to city, and when Bono had reached out to move him in the wrong direction, Edge had let it happen.

With an unsteady finger, he’d traced from Interstate 10 onto Route 60, and it had been like looking through a highway mirage when Bono had smiled at him. Dull orange light had streamed through the curtains, and there had been no escape from the heat.

Sliding his finger alongside Edge’s, Bono had whispered, “Salome,” like it was a morning prayer, and sometimes prayer was all they had.

Another smile had appeared, shimmering and cut in orange, and Bono had curled his finger and leaned in close. His breath against Edge’s neck had almost been too much to bear. “Just imagine what we could find there, Edge,” he’d said, and there had been a single thought on Edge’s mind.

With a full tank and the money in his pocket, Edge was sure he could make it to Salome. It wasn’t the answer, he knew, but at least he’d be getting somewhere fast. It was a start. It was something. He needed something, fuck, _anything_ , he just needed . . .

He couldn’t.

He just couldn’t.

With a steady hand, he took the key from the ignition and, after two deep breaths, he stepped from the car and made his way inside.

Aislinn was asleep on the couch, and it was where he had pictured her to be. Still in the blouse she had been wearing the day before, with her skirt neatly folded over the back of the couch. She was as lovely as the day they had met.

Edge watched her, hoping that she might wake, hoping that she might not, and when nothing changed he left the room.

Exhaustion was hanging heavy, but he went in and checked on his little girls first, kissing them both on the forehead and soothing Arran when she started to stir. Leaving the door open a crack, he stood outside for a minute or so, waiting for something. Anything.

It didn’t come, and he made his way through the silence, down the hall to shut the bedroom door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this turned out different than I thought it was going to (sorry Jana!) and where there was porn, now there is angst. I feel like I've been listening to The Cure or something after writing this, but I'm not sorry and I hope you enjoy this angst, this terrible, terrible angst.

The day was half over by the time he managed to pull himself out from underneath the sheets, and he’d awoken lost and unsure.

Dull orange light had been streaming through the curtains, and it had added to his confusion well after he’d stared at the clock and tried to make sense of it all. Sometimes, even after a concentrated effort, he still couldn’t quite remember what city he was in.

Even weeks after the tour had finished. Months.

However long it had been, and there had been mornings after where he’d kept his eyes closed and listened, just listened and waited for the sounds of life on the road. A door slamming in the distance. Muffled footsteps and the laughter of people who didn’t understand how mornings worked.

And sometimes, his family. Aislinn by his side or not and the girls asleep or awake in the next room over, watching their cartoons with the volume not quite turned down far enough.

And other times, Bono. By his side or not, sleeping soundly or pulling on a pair of jeans with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Kissing Edge’s neck as his hand slid lower, smelling like morning sweat and slept-in linen as he made it clear that they had all the time in the world.

They didn’t. But sometimes, Edge just had to believe.

He walked out of the bedroom to a silent house. There was a single light left on in the kitchen and a note on the counter, and he read it twice before again checking the time. He could clean himself up and go and join them at dinner. He could stay in and wait for them to come home, spend some precious time with his girls before bedtime.

Those were the only two options he knew he had. The right options. The safe options.

In the shower, he stood motionless under the stream for far too long, staring through the soap until the water started to cool. He stayed there still, washing his hair, his chest and then between his thighs with a warm hand and water that felt like sheer, beautiful torture. The cold bit into his skin like a punishment as the night before became the one thing he couldn’t ignore.

It was like sketches on a page. Fragments of the night all drawn in black, and in the midst of it all were Bono’s eyes. Neon blue against the sign. A darker blue when Edge needed it most. A different shade for every single emotion that God had thought to create, and sometimes blue was all Edge could ever see.

He thought of the night before, and then others. He thought Bono’s mouth, the wet heat of it all. The stretch of his lips and the slide of his tongue, the noises he made as he brought Edge to ruin. The slip of hair against desperate fingers, and Edge gripping, coaxing, pushing away - _no don’t -_ and pulling closer - _please yes more_ \- and through it all, he just saw blue.

The water was ice cold as he washed his come from the shower door, and he stood motionless under it for a while longer, until it started to hurt.

He put on yesterday's clothes and made toast for dinner, watching the blank television as he ate. The phone rang and he ignored it, and when it rang again he thought the worst and snatched up the receiver.

“How are you feeling today?” Bono quietly asked, and for a moment Edge wondered if he was meant to be ill. He felt fine, and when he told Bono as much there was a slight pause. “Great, that’s great. You had me worried last night.”

“Sorry.”

There was another pause, and then Bono said, “You don’t have to say sorry, you know.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or whatever, I just-”

“What else am I supposed to say, Bono? Thank you?”

Bono’s breath harshed through the line, and Edge waited for it. He probably deserved it, whatever was coming. “Edge,” Bono started before cutting himself off with a tired chuckle. “It doesn’t matter, alright? I just - I was thinking that you could come over later.”

“Bono-”

“I woke up thinking about you, Edge.”

It was something Edge had heard before, a line that could only mean one thing. That had worked on him every single time in the past. “I don’t know. . .”

“Or we could go out? We missed you last night. The entire night, people kept asking me where you were, Edge.”

“Yeah?”

“I ended up just writing the answer across my forehead to save my voice.” Edge shook his head with a laugh, and he could hear the smile in Bono’s voice as he said, “So you’ll come?”

“Sorry,” Edge said, and in a way, he was. “Not tonight.”

“Alright.” Bono sighed, and Edge could see him clearly, a hand running through his hair and that look on his face. Frustrated but working through it, and it was almost enough to make Edge change his mind. “Spending some quality time with the family then?”

It was tempting to lie, but Edge knew it wasn’t worth it. Somehow, Bono always knew. “I’m about to head to the studio, actually,” he said, adding, “Someone has to,” before he could stop himself.

There was silence, and Edge knew he’d earned it. It was likely he deserved worse, far worse, and he couldn’t find a reason for anything. Why he had said it, why such a thing had even occurred to him. He couldn’t even find it in himself to take it back, or say anything at all. He just listened to Bono breathe, and waited. Something was coming. It had to. Something, anything, it just had to.

With a huff, Bono snapped, “Fine,” and a dial tone drowned out Edge’s thoughts before he could formulate a response.

Slowly, he placed the phone back into its cradle before taking a step back, and then another. Part of him expected it to ring again, and when it didn’t, he knew he had no right to feel disappointed. No right at all.

The feeling lingered nonetheless, and he tried to push it from his mind as he went around gathering his things. He couldn’t.

There was something wrong with him.

There had to be.

Below Aislinn’s note he added his own before slipping out the door and into his car, intent on getting to the second-best distraction he knew as soon as possible.

It was Friday, he was almost sure, and he’d chosen the wrong time to head across town. Bumper to bumper, the traffic crawled for a time, and he was white-knuckled and calm, staring straight ahead and out the window until the world began to move at a steady rate.

He hated the city. He loved the city. It was like a drug, coursing through his veins, dragging him back in when he was desperate for an out.

There had been a morning early on where it had been just the two of them, drinking dirt cheap coffee from styrofoam cups as they sat on a stoop and watched the world pass them by. They’d seen men in suits stepping over junkies on the sidewalk without a care, they’d seen children looking through windows in wonder as their mothers pulled them along, and when he’d glanced to his left, Edge had found Bono with a steady gaze as he stared right on back.

It was different at night. Cleaner and brighter, as long as you didn’t look below the surface.

With its dazzling lights that shone down and embraced the darkness, some nights in the city left him with the feeling that, no matter what happened, it was going to be okay. Whether he was looking out of a window or sitting on a rooftop or even perched high above the city on the hood of a car, he wasn’t alone. With a brilliant smile and that look in his eye, Bono was. . .

A distraction. A reason. More. For a few hours, Bono was his. And on those nights when his name being spoken next to him made the world come back into focus, he just knew.

It was going to be okay.

He arrived at the studio with a coffee in one hand and a container of Chinese in the other, fumbling with the door handle before making his way inside. The Chinese was instantly forgotten and the coffee wasn’t strong enough, and even before he sat down he knew it was useless. He picked up his guitar anyway, but there was nothing, no thought, no melody, just an emptiness that grew bigger with each second that passed.

Determined, he stuck with it, gripping the guitar until his palms started to sweat, until he could almost get back to where he had been the night before. Almost. It didn’t feel right though, it _wasn’t_ right, and Jesus, he had made the wrong choice.

There was a liquor store the next street over and they’d been there only two weeks before, on a night when they’d found every excuse to get away from the studio.

Bono had been quiet on the drive up, content to just listen to the radio as he looked here and there, watching the life on the streets or the cars in front, and then, when the traffic had started to trickle away, he’d turned his head towards Edge. His smile had cut through the darkness of the car, and Edge hadn’t been able to stop himself from grinning back.

Parked above the city with a bottle of bourbon between them, they had taken in the night quietly at first - _maybe we could build a house below the sign, Edge_ \- before becoming louder, frantic in the backseat of the car, with a few drinks in them and a single thought on both their minds.

His name had been moaned, desperate and beautiful, and then later, when Bono had found it in himself to go stand at the ledge and look down, it had been screamed. Again and again, cutting through the darkness and towards the city lights as if Bono had something to prove, and maybe he had. He’d come back with a smile on his face, plucking the cigarette from between Edge’s lips before kissing him, hard and deep.

As if he had something prove.

“A house below the W, if it’s not taken,” he had said, his chin digging into Edge’s shoulder as they looked out over the city, and he had taken a drag before handing the cigarette back. “Just for you and me, Edge, whenever we need it.” His lips had been warm against Edge’s jaw, and when he had smiled, Edge hadn’t wanted him to stop. “It’s fun to dream, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” he’d replied, and when Bono had turned his head back towards the city, Edge had found himself wishing he could say more.

He left the studio behind.

It wasn’t his worst idea, but it wasn’t his best, and under the fluorescent lighting of the liquor store he found himself muttering, “Christ,” the moment he spotted his reflection in the window. There were other people in the store, oblivious, and when he said it again, louder this time, still no one reacted. For a moment, he found himself wondering what would happen if he sat down. If he stretched out in the middle of the aisle like a junkie on the street.

It wasn’t worth thinking about. But for a moment, he couldn’t help himself.

With an unopened bottle of bourbon between his thighs, he made his way through the city aimlessly for a while, taking side streets until he almost found himself lost, until he found a sign that took him on towards more familiar scenery. It was later, the traffic not quite as severe, and when he found himself by _Million Dollar Hotel_ there was a car park with his name on it.

He took it.

Looking up at the neon sign, he found himself tempted. If he waited up on the rooftop long enough, maybe he’d get lucky. At the very least, it would make a nice place to drink for a while.

It wasn’t enough though, he knew, and after tucking the bottle of bourbon underneath the front seat, he kept his head down until he was around the corner and, with a familiar smile thrown the bouncer’s way, he was inside.

From behind the bar, Cindy shook her head and yelled, “I haven’t seen them,” over the music, offering a regretful smile and a drink for his troubles. Scotch on the rocks, then another, and then he was on his way, scanning the club twice and coming up empty.

In the bathroom he found people using, and he politely declined as he looked and left in a hurry, waving goodbye to Cindy as he went. He was feeling pleasant and warm, and he knew it wouldn’t last.

He got in the car and started driving. There were other clubs, other places they could be, spread out over the entirety of the city, and it was too much. There were other places Edge should be, and if he went home now maybe it would all be okay again. Maybe he could make it work. Maybe . . .

“It’s fun to dream,” Bono had said, and sometimes Edge just didn’t know when to stop.

The homes in Bel Air were beautiful and sometimes extreme, and he’d brought his girls there one day and walked them around, looking at the houses until their little legs got tired. They’d headed towards the house the other three were staying at, the hippie commune he'd called it more than once, and after a late lunch he had watched Bono play with the girls in the pool. “God, where’s the camera when you need one,” Larry had said, but he’d been gesturing to Edge, not the girls. “I thought you’d forgotten how to smile.”

There were no lights on in the house, but it had never stopped him before. Inside, he walked back and forth as called all their names, and when the silence continued he headed past the kitchen and out into the middle of the house. The pool looked like ink in the dark, and when he dipped his foot in he half expected the water to stain him. When it came out clean, he slipped off his shirt and took a step forward, feet first into the water.

It was shockingly cold and then perfect, and he dove to the bottom and stayed there until his lungs started to burn and the panic started to hit.  He came up to the surface spluttering, desperate for air, and as soon as he was able to breathe again, Edge found himself wanting to dive right on back. See how long he could stay down. Hold his breath until he came apart at the seams.

He didn’t. It was a bad idea, even he knew that. Instead, he pulled himself from the water and headed back inside, trekking water wherever he went. It didn’t matter, he knew. He could do worse to the house, had already done so much worse with the others, and no one would do a damn thing.

In a few months, the building would be history. Leveled out and replaced with something stronger, something more beautiful, and as he looked around at the cracks in the wall, Edge wondered why they hadn’t destroyed it sooner.

He prowled the house quietly, turning lights on as he went, certain that the others might need guidance upon their return home. In the study he flipped through old books that had been left behind, setting a couple aside to take home in the morning, if he remembered.

He washed off the chlorine in the en suite before settling down on the bed in Bono’s bathrobe, and he flicked through the channels for a while before settling on the end of  _The Tonight Show._ It barely held his interest, but it was something.

It was enough to drown out the noise as he drank, but not enough to make him ignore the feeling that was building, and the bottle was barely a quarter empty when he put it down.

He was warm. He was red hot and burning, turning again and again against the scratch of the bed covers, and as he listened to Letterman in the background Edge found himself wondering if he was going to make it. If he was going to make a mistake. If he could keep his head above water and be enough. He wondered. . .

Opening his eyes, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d fallen asleep, but it didn’t feel right. He felt too alert, suddenly anxious, and when he sat up the room only spun once before settling.

Still, he could feel it buried underneath,and for a second he couldn’t quite catch his breath, but then he was fine. Breathing steady as he squinted at the television, and it wasn’t Letterman anymore, it wasn’t important.

With the bottle in hand, he got up to turn off the television, and in the silence followed, he heard it. Footsteps. Thumping, coming closer, so close that Edge didn’t know how he had missed them. He swallowed hard, took a sip to wash the metallic taste from his mouth. Swallowing again, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the lump in his throat, the tightness in his chest, and maybe that was okay. Maybe it was just a part of him now, and as he listened, the footsteps briefly stopped, almost right outside the door as Bono listened back. Wondering, imagining no doubt, and Edge set the bottle down on top of the television before taking a step backwards.

He waited, and when the footsteps started back up, laboured but determined, Edge closed his eyes and just breathed. The door opened.

With a smile on his face that was halfway to dangerous, Bono greeted him with, “I went to the studio and you weren’t there,” crossing his arms against his chest as he stared Edge down.

It wasn’t worth getting into. “Close the door,” Edge said instead, and he was feeling a little dangerous himself.

“No.”

“Close the door, Bono,” he said again, and this time Bono did as he was asked. He'd gone to the studio. “Thank you.”

He'd gone looking for Edge.

For a moment they just looked at each other, and when Bono said, “You’re wearing my bathrobe,” it was enough to get Edge moving. Three steps forward, and he had Bono up against the door, clutching at the hand that came up against his chest. “You used my shampoo.”

“Yes.”

“I can smell it,” Bono said almost victoriously, and his knuckles were swollen.

Four little bumps, raised and starting to darken, and when Edge glanced up he could still see that smile on Bono’s face.

Not drunk but not sober either, and he shrugged and turned away when Edge asked, “You been thumping people again, B?” The look on his face was answer enough, and yet he didn’t turn back until his hand was brought up to Edge’s lips. Softly, Edge kissed each knuckle, left to right until Bono’s smile changed. And when Edge dragged his mouth, lips pressing against the thin skin of Bono’s wrist, kissing, sucking, his smile changed again with a sigh and a single word.

He smelled like sweat and faded cologne lost beneath the smoke. He tasted like a night on the town, like sour whiskey and too many cigarettes, delicious, _delicious_ , and when his fingers gripped, Edge pulled them away. Clutching at his wrists, he dragged them up, further until they were pressed above his head, hands together as Edge held them there.

There was that look in Bono’s eye, one that Edge barely knew, one that made him want to lose control, and he almost did. Almost, as he dug his fingers in too hard and kissed away the noises Bono made, tasted the sweat at the dip of his neck, underneath his jaw, sucking the skin there until Bono said it again, that one single word.

 _Yes_. . .

It was okay to leave a mark. Ali wasn’t here, they had as much time as they needed. It was okay, it was okay, he could do anything.

She wasn’t here. “You’re mine,” he found himself saying, and he didn’t know why, but it was worth it for the way Bono’s knees buckled.

That word, again and again, lost against Edge’s mouth, against his skin, fingers clutching and pulling him closer. He was smiling, gasping, bucking against the press of Edge’s palm, and through it all Edge just saw blue. In bloodshot eyes, asking for more. He couldn’t help himself.

He never could.

It was pressing deep inside, clawing at his chest as he helped Bono with his clothes, both as clumsy as each other, rushing and a little bit drunk. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he was underwater for all of a moment, maybe more, maybe too long, and he was clutching at greasy hair when he surfaced.

Kissing, sucking, biting. The back of Bono’s neck. His shoulder. Anywhere he could get to as he pressed Bono face first into the bed, two fingers inside him, fast and hard as Bono writhed beneath him. As Bono gasped like he was struggling, like he could barely breathe.

Gasping, _gasping_ , and he could barely breathe.

He couldn’t. He fucking _couldn’t_.

With a thump, his knees hit the floor. With a sticky hand, he clutched the bedspread tightly, and he could hear Bono calling his name, confused and then anxious, a hand on Edge’s shoulder as he leaned in closer.

His lips were swollen, his eyes blue, and Edge kissed him.

He was pushed back gently, and then pulled closer still, their foreheads touching as Bono quietly said, “It’s okay.”

And maybe it was. Edge just didn’t know anymore. But he had to believe.

He slept in Bono’s bed and woke up with the sun, warm and content as he watched Bono sleep. Slowly and in pieces, he recalled the last time he’d spent the night.

Flat on his back with Bono smiling down at him, his lip caught between his teeth as he’d rolled his hips; hips that Edge had clutched tightly as he’d groaned. He had pulled Bono closer, kissing him, coaxing him, begging him to move again, the tight heat around his cock almost too much to bear, but it had been enough.

It always was.

Quietly, they drank black coffee under the covers, up far too early for such a day. It didn’t matter. “You alright?” Bono’s voice was scratchy, and his smile barely there as he said, “You can talk to me, Edge.”

“I know I can.”

“Do you?”

Edge just nodded, and before Bono could continue, he asked, “Do you remember Salome, Bono?”

“Salome?” Bono chuckled. It was his first real smile of the day. “Mmm, I love watching women dance,” he said, and his smile grew when Edge began to laugh.

“That’s not what-”

“I remember,” Bono said with a slight shake of his head, and still, that smile. “Did you think I would forget?”

“No,” Edge said after a pause, but a part of him had. He didn’t know why, but maybe it was just what he was used to. “No, I-”

“Edge,” Bono cut in, “talk to me.”

He could. He could talk. There was so much he could do, but he just didn’t know. . .

It was easier at night. So many things were easier. “It’s okay,” Bono said, and maybe it was. At the very least, it was a start. It was something, and when Bono smiled at him, Edge just had to smile back.


End file.
